Hell Hath No FuryA Story by Brianna Van Zandt Mackenzie and Jackson got married for their son's sake, but an abusive relationship leads to a tragedy..... Standing
alone in the living room, I stared at the pictures above the fireplace. Each
depicted a different scene my husband had created. The cabin in the woods that didn't exist, the waterfall on the other side of the world, the amusement parks
in Virginia. We’d never been to any of these places, never took these pictures,
never posed for them. Each one was thrown together from old pictures we’d taken
when we were happy. My son’s smile was frozen on his eight-year-old face as he
held up a fish by the waterfall. That picture had been at a lake fifteen
minutes from our home, but my husband had wanted to make it seem more exotic
and interesting. We’d had a fight about it one night and everything changed
after that: “Jackson,
why are our actual family memories so embarrassing to you? Why the hell aren't they good enough? Who are you trying to impress?” I moved between him and the
television. He looked at me with eyes like daggers, crushing the half-full beer
can in his hand, and unsteadily rose to his feet. He was easily a foot taller
than me, much bigger and definitely more powerful than I was. He closed the
distance of just a few feet in a single step and smacked me, shoving me to the
ground. “I
don’t have to explain myself to you! You’re just a little f*****g w***e!” he
howled. He started to unbuckle his belt when I got up, shaking off the stars
that danced around my head and the pain in my cheek. “Just a little
daddy’s-girl little b***h.” I tried to keep myself calm, knowing my son was in
the next room and fearing his father would turn his rage on the boy. “Jackson,
I only asked a question,” I asked him, my eyes on his. I heard his drunken
hands still fumbling with his pants. He didn't answer. The only reaction I got
came several moments later when he grabbed my throat and threw me onto the
couch, pinning me down beneath his massive frame while he tried to get my pants
off too. Then, I heard the voice of a savior. “Get
off of her!” It was my son, eight-year-old Jeremy. He had heard the scuffle and
had been roused from whatever sleep he’d been in. Jackson snarled and stood up,
pulling his pants back up around his waist. He left the button undone and the
zipper down, his hands balled into fists the size of the boy’s head. “You’d
best go back to bed, boy,” Jackson growled out. Jeremy shifted the weight of
the baseball bat in his hand, his eyes bright and attentive, staring at the
abusive monster shuffling closer to him. Jackson raised a hand to attack, but
Jeremy’s unhampered reflexes got the better of the bulky drunk. The baseball
bat came around in a brutal, crushing blow, hitting the big man’s leg and
knocking him down. Jackson gave a shout of pain and fell to one knee. Dropping
the bat, my son ran to me and wrapped his arms around me. “Are
you okay?” he asked. He was always so much more mature than most of the boys
his age, and I was proud of him for that. “I’m
okay, Jer,” I said quietly, holding him close to me. I was starting to feel a
little safe when I saw Jackson get back up with the bat in his massive hands.
Jeremy felt me tense and let go, turning to face his father. Jackson didn't care that the boy was not the primary target of his rage. His drunken mind saw
us all as targets for practice. Without a word, only a growl, he swung his fist
at me and knocked me down again. Everything went red, then faded to black. It
probably wasn't that long, but it felt like forever before I finally regained
consciousness. When I finally did, my clothes were wet and my skin was
splattered with red. Blood, I thought instantly, shaking of the haze the punch
had left me in. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, and that’s when I
saw the horrors my husband had left for me. My little boy was on the ground,
the carpet around him soaked in his crimson blood. His entire upper body was
just a bloody mass, bones sticking out, contorted in terrifying ways. I gave a
cry of pure anguish, screaming until my lungs couldn't hold the air needed for
another, and hugged what was left of him against me, not caring about the blood
that seeped through my clothes. My
little boy was dead. My
little boy…. I
shook my head, closing my eyes against the tears that welled up whenever I
thought of Jeremy. Those manufactured pictures, no matter how much I hated Jackson,
were the only ones I had of my son. Jackson had left that night and taken
everything else of Jeremy’s with him. Now, exactly eight years later, I couldn't handle it anymore. My little boy was murdered, and his killer was
still out there. I knew where he was. “You’re
gonna pay,” I vowed in a dangerously low voice. ~ Three
hours later, I was farther from my home than I’d been in years, following
Jackson’s shiny black car through the city. I tailed him from several cars
back, plotting my revenge. The b*****d had gotten away with murder. The law had
ignored his crime. He'd had friends everywhere, including the police, and had paid them off when he disappeared to forget all about him. I wouldn't ignore it. I saw myself putting a bullet in his
brain, or maybe beating him with a bat like he’d done. An eye for an eye, I
thought. A life for a life. My attention returned to him as he turned into a driveway. Watching
from a distance, I parked further down the street. Jackson
got out of his car with a big plastic bag, probably stuffed with groceries. He
glanced around, then went inside the house, leaving the door open to let in the
warm breeze. Refusing to wait any longer, a smirk forming on my lips, I
snatched the bat and gun and got out. The gun was safely tucked in my
waistband, the bat tossed over my shoulder. I threw caution to the wind and
darted across the street, slipped through the open door and began my hunt. I
found Jackson in the kitchen, his back conveniently to me. The bat felt right
in my hand, felt comfortably heavy as I adjusted it for my first blow. Before I
really thought about it, the bat was flying around, striking my ex-husband’s
temple. Jackson yelped and fell against the counter, his head smashing into a
corner. Blood already welled where the bat had crashed into his skull. I pushed
him over with my foot so he would be looking at me. “Mackenzie,”
he gasped, wiping away some blood. He tried to sit up, growling, “What the f**k
are you doing here?” I kicked him, my eyes cold and filled with rage. “You
killed my little boy,” I hissed quietly. “You killed my son, Jackson, and you didn't pay. No one made you pay for your crimes. Now, I’m getting justice. For
Jeremy.” Jackson tried to get up again, but my foot slamming into his massive
chest ended the attempt. He coughed and sputtered and I laughed at him. “You
killed my son, and now I’m going to kill you.” I swung the bat with brutal
force, crushing a few ribs. I was laughing now, insane with rage and losing
control. No, the control was gone. It was gone the second I left the house this
morning. The bat slammed into his chest over and over, shattering bones and
destroying any organs I happened to hit. Jackson started coughing up blood,
staring at me with fear in his eyes. I smiled at him, a horrifying sight when
you add to it the blood splattered all over me. “Mackenzie,
don’t do this. This isn't you!” He was gasping for breath at this point, but
his pleas meant nothing to me. “You
killed Jeremy.” That was the last thing I said to him. The bat came down over
and over again, cracking his skull and sending blood and brain matter
splattering up the walls, turning the cheerfully-colored kitchen into a
gruesome scene. Again. Again. Again. The
haze of red finally faded when only a bloody mass remained of my ex-husband’s
body. I dropped the bat at his side, then pulled out the gun that I’d tucked
away. I’d finally gotten my justice. I was finally at peace. I wanted to see my
little boy again. Looking at the gun, I smiled a little bit. “It’s over, Jeremy. I’m coming home now,” I promised before raising the gun to my lips, put the barrel in my mouth and pulled the trigger without a second thought. © 2013 Brianna Van ZandtAuthor's Note
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Brianna Van ZandtUnited States Minor Outlying IslandsAboutIt's been a while since I've been here. I'm now twenty years old, and though my time for writing has dwindled, my passion has not. If anything, it has grown – and made it infinitely more difficu.. more..Writing
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